All I gave you was gone
by princess-of-the-worlds
Summary: In 1984, Nicholas and Caroline Forbes live in a mint-green house in small-town Mystic Falls, Virginia. They are completely, completely ordinary, and no one has reason to suspect otherwise, not even themselves. ("Ready to comply.")
1. 1

warning: minor violence and minor character death and mind control

DISCLAIMER: THIS FIC IS SET HEAVILY IN THE MARVEL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE, AND THE AUTHOR HIGHLY ADVISES THAT READERS BE FAMILIAR WITH THE CAPTAIN AMERICA MOVIES AND/OR THE AVENGERS.

honestly, this fic is less of a crossover and more of a fusion, and the only real characters from TVD and/or TO to be mainly featured will be Klaus and Caroline.

i will update the tags as i post more chapters so always pay attention to that.

thank you to everyone who expressed interest at this being an actual fic on tumblr, klaroline magazine, and my wonderful new beta stephanie who can found klarolinedrabbles on tumblr.

i am slightly terrified at posting this. i'm not sure if anyone will actually read it.

i hope you enjoy this.

to see the picspam that goes along with this fic, check out this link ( post/147276380484/klarolineau-red-room-prelude).

* * *

 **Prelude**

In 1984, Nicholas and Caroline Forbes live in a mint-green house in small-town Mystic Falls, Virginia. They are neighbors with Stefan and Elena Salvatore, their close friends. Stefan and Nick both work in the Mystic Falls Police Department, Stefan as Deputy Sheriff and Nick, despite disadvantages from his prosthetic arm, as the Sheriff. Caroline and Elena are best friends, and, as a former trained ballerina, Carolina teaches dance classes at the studio that the Salvatores own.

The couple moved to Mystic Falls two years previous, searching for a fresh start after a devastating car accident cost Nick his left arm and left both husband and wife with a memory spottier than Swiss cheese. Despite their inability to remember their first meeting or wedding, Nick and Caroline remain devoted to each other and are adored by their fellow residents of the town. They are an incredibly social couple that attends each town event. Caroline's bright blue eyes, sunshine-blond curls, and bountiful optimism brings a smile to anyone and everyone, and half the town's female population crushes heavily on Nick's lilting English accent and roguishly-handsome looks.

They are completely, completely _ordinary_ , and no one has reason to suspect otherwise, not even themselves.

The last day of their little bubble of self-awareness begins as a normal morning.

Freshly showered and dressed, Caroline fiddles with their coffeemaker as Nick tends to his cooking pancakes on the stove.

"Would you like chocolate chips in your pancakes, sweetheart?" Nick asks casually as he flips a single pancake and adds it to a stack on a plate on the dining table.

Caroline hums sweetly, stalking up to her husband and pressing butterfly kisses on his right shoulder. "Yes, that would be wonderful," she replies distractedly.

After setting the last pancake on the plate, Nick reaches over and turns the stove off before turning to gather Caroline in his arms. He cranes his neck to kiss her softly, and they remain in their embrace for several passionate moments.

Stroking Nick's cheek and rough stubble, Caroline's hand traces over a faint scar along his jawline. As far as she is aware, that scar has always been there, but neither Nick or Caroline have any idea of its origin.

Finally, Nick and Caroline step apart and take their seats at respective ends of the dining table.

Over the sound of forks scraping against the plates, Caroline tells her husband about some performance coming up at Elena's dance studio, waving her hands animatedly as she explains.

Nick smiles fondly at her, rising from his chair to place his dish into the sink. He is hovering at the sink when their front and back doors burst open, and Caroline gasps sharply in surprise and drops her fork to the ground loudly.

In a matter of seconds, both Nick and Caroline are surrounded by two dozen men outfitted identically in black Kevlar and sturdy helmets. There are six rifles pointed at her husband's head, another six at her head. The rest stand, forming a perimeter around the kitchen.

Aware of her swiftly-beating heart, Caroline opens her mouth but is cut off by a jab to her head.

Her assailant growls roughly at her, "Make one sound, even move, and there will be six different holes in your brain from our bullets." He gestures towards Nick. "Same goes for you."

She swallows quietly, a lump deep in her throat, and nods silently. Her body is registering fear now, dark tendrils creeping silently over her brain, her heart a train wreck in her chest.

Near the sink, Nick is standing loosely still. Her husband has always been non-expressive in his emotions, and, if Caroline hadn't been married to him, she would have missed the slight trembling in his hands and slightly-darkened eyes.

Their back door swings open again with a squeak, and a man strolls straight in to stand near the table.

He's dapper in a well-pressed three-piece grey suit, with reddish-blond hair that is prematurely streaked with white, sky-blue eyes, and a proud chin, completely out of place in Caroline's quaint kitchen.

He begins to speak, and immediately, the men pointing guns at Caroline's and her husband's head snap to attention, surveying him with a gaze that makes it obvious that he is their superior. "My name is Alexander Pierce."

There is a pause, and Caroline wonders if she is supposed to recognize this Alexander Pierce.

"I don't _give a fuck_ who you are!" Nick exclaims gruffly with unexpected timing. "Get the bloody fuck out of our house!"

One of the men reacts suddenly, jabbing the tip of his rifle above Nick's ear threateningly. Nick flinches though stares at Pierce with an expressive glower.

Pierce frowns; it is clear that he was not expecting this. Immediately, though, his expression changes into a relaxed smile. "It is clear that your former employers were too permissive when they deprogrammed you. You both have received a bit of _too much_ freedom. Obviously, that is going to change now. We cannot take liberties with you."

There is silence as Caroline gapes up at Pierce.

He continues, "The two of you, working side-by-side for us, you will shape the world into the next century. You were both designed to be impressive weapons; that is exactly what you will be for HYDRA."

"Hail HYDRA!" two dozen voices exclaim in unison as Pierce nods in approval.

A memory loosens at the back of Caroline's mind. She is young, a child, and flipping through a textbook. HYDRA, it says, was the Nazi science and research division, taken down by Captain America and his team of specially-skilled soldiers called the Howling Commandos during World War II. The memory is tainted with a dreamy quality; Caroline is watching it through an ocean of water, muffled and distorted.

"We are human beings!" Caroline protests, the words forced from somewhere in her throat. "You can't do this to us. This is illegal!"

Pierce ignores her, instead snapping his fingers and calling for a man named Rollins.

A young man in his early twenties who appears more of a boy steps forward and hands Pierce a little red book with a black star.

Pierce snorts at the book but flips it open anyway, stepping closer to the sink until he is face-to-face with Nick.

Pierce opens his mouth and begins to speak in a calm, unwavering voice. The words flowing from his lips are not English, and Caroline's distorted brain identifies them as Russian, understanding them completely even though she has never learned or spoken the language before in her life.

" _Longing_."

Nick flinches, and Caroline's gaze snaps to him in concern. His body is beginning to tense up, shoulders stiffening.

" _Rusted_."

Caroline glances up at one of the men surrounding her. She can see her own reflection in the mirror of his visor, a warped thing surrounded by dark blobs.

" _Seventeen_. _Daybreak_."

"What are you doing?" Nick rasps in a daze.

Caroline's eyes met his, and suddenly, she is _frightened_. There is confusion in her husband's eyes, but, also, sheer terror, something she has never seen before.

Her palms begin to sweat, and she jiggles her knee up and down nervously.

" _Furnace._ "

"Stop!" Caroline cries before she can think. "Leave him alone! What are you doing to him?"

"Get her to shut up," someone drawls from besides Nick.

"No need," Rollins says lazily.

" _Nine_."

Caroline can sense something in Nick shatter, and his eyes begin to haze, losing focus. His body is loosening, pliant enough to need to be supported from one of the men.

" _Benign_."

Nick's eyes flutter shut, his face going lax, appearing younger and boyish, more vulnerable.

" _Homecoming_. _One_. _Freight car_."

Then there is silence.

"Nick?" Caroline whispers softly, but her husband doesn't respond.

Pierce speaks again, tone sharp but steady. " _Soldat_?"

Nick straightens, standing with a loose stance, hands stiff by his side. His head is bowed slightly, but as his eyes flicker open, there is a sea of blue emptiness, everything hollow, no sign or spark. " _Ready to comply_ ," he responds in a dull monotone of Russian. Speaking again in English, his English accent is completely gone, his voice even. "Awaiting orders."

"Nick?" Caroline whimpers. Her husband doesn't even glance at her; this person, whoever he is, is not her husband anymore. The hair on the back of Caroline's neck raise, tingling, and Caroline is acutely aware of the pimply goosebumps on her smooth skin.

"Excellent," Pierce says with obvious approval. He turns to face Caroline. "Now, for you-"

"Caroline?" a quiet, confused voice calls as Elena's sleek brunette head appear into the kitchen. "What's going on?"

"No!" Caroline moans quietly.

"Caroline?" Elena repeats sharply, eyeing the men with the guns with suddenly-frightened eyes. "Nick?"

"Run, Elena!" Caroline screams at her friend, heart pounding in her chest. "Get out of here!"

Immediately, Elena turns on her heel and swiftly disappears from the kitchen.

Pierce sighs in irritation. " _Soldat_ , you know what to do."

The _Soldat_ stalks after Elena and drags her back into the kitchen, hand clutching her straight hair with a punishing grip.

Elena has frozen, shrinking in the confines of his grip, eyes wide and skin paling.

The _Soldat_ places both hands of either side of Elena's neck and _twists_.

There is an audible snap, and Elena's body slumps to the floor, neck broken at an unnatural angle.

Caroline sobs shrilly and attempts to lunge out of her chair. The men grab for her, but she slips underneath them.

Caroline is inches from the door when there is a hand in her hair, pulling her backwards. She screams as she is pulled into the _Soldat_ 's chest and his forearms lock over her stomach in an iron grip. She is too frozen in terror to even think about struggling.

"She's a fighter," Pierce comments dryly, moving into Caroline's frame of view. He steps closer.

Without even thinking about it, Caroline attempts to head-butt the older man. Dodging her blow, Pierce snaps his fingers, and a strong hand comes to cruelly clutch Caroline's jaw, holding her completely immobilized.

Pierce stares Caroline down, wrinkling his forehead in concentration. Then he speaks in a hard tone, " _Sputnik. Eight. Ten. One. Nine. Forty-eight. Spider._ "

Her mind blanks as realization comes crashing down.

She is not Caroline Forbes.

Caroline Forbes is no one, nothing; Caroline Forbes is a lie.

 _She_ is a weapon; she is a Widow.

" _Widow_?" Pierce asks softly.

 _I am Caroline Forbes_

" _Ready to comply_."

* * *

drop a line down below if you enjoyed (or hated it).

or find me on tumblr ( ).


	2. 2

warning: minor character death, violence, car crash, guns, hospitalization

thank you for the response to the last chapter. i am glad that someone is interested in reading a story like this.

enjoy.

* * *

 **Budapest, Hungary**

 **1996**

There is a prickle of hairs on the back of her neck as if she's been watched, but Karolina shrugs it off with a brief glance around the extravagant hotel hallway and raps sharply on the cedar door.

Immediately, it opens to reveal a young waifish girl no older than seventeen and dressed neatly in slacks and a tailored blouse. "Yes?" she asks softly in response to seeing Karolina.

Her reply is a gun to her forehead.

To the girl's credit, she doesn't flinch or cry out, instead stepping backwards when Karolina takes a step inside the hotel room.

Prodding the girl in the back, Karolina forces her to sit down on the plush bed, gun still aimed at her head.

" _My employer is not pleased with you_ , _Agathe. Killing an American senator's son, then fleeing to Hungary…congratulations, you've made the kill list of nearly every underground organization. Everyone is coming for you,_ " Karolina tells her in rapidly-hissed German.

" _Well, you found me first_ ," Agathe replies duly. " _Get it over with_."

Karolina presses the tip of the gun on the bridge of Agathe's nose, her grey eyes becoming cross-eyed as she stares at the barrel.

"I do not regret killing him," Agathe says in heavily-accented English. "He was hurting so many young girls. He had them kidnapped off of German streets and shipped to America for men's pleasure. I would redo it all exactly the same"

" _It doesn't matter to me_ ," Karolina states stolidly. Her finger tightens on the trigger of her gun.

There are two simultaneous bangs, one as Karolina squeezes the trigger and another as the heavy door to the room thrashes open.

" _Drop your weapon!_ " an agent geared in black Kevlar yells in Hungarian. A small eagle logo on the left upper sleeve of his uniform identifies him as SHIELD, one of the more stringent international agencies that has been on Karolina's tail." _Karolina Fyodora, you are under arrest!_ "

Karolina has already darted to the other side of the room, not sparing a glance towards the bed as the corpse falls backwards onto the mattress, and is crashing through the hotel window. Suddenly exposed to the chilly nighttime air, Karolina falls backwards, out of sight of the SHIELD agent.

She lands on the nearby rooftop, rolling and dashing to the other end. Without even stopping, Karolina blindly clears the gap as she leaps, landing on the next rooftop, rolling, and springing back up again.

There is the sensation of air whooshing past her, and Karolina dives forward into a roll as an _arrow_ of all things streaks through the air right above where her head had been. She doesn't look back, continuing forward; she has cleared three rooftops by now.

She senses another disturbance in air pressure, a tad too late this time, and is forced to drop down uncomfortably on her knees, glancing up at the arrow as it flies over her head.

The archer is nowhere to be seen on the nearby rooftops, which means that his long-distance accuracy is incredible, and Karolina is aware of only one sniper who uses a bow and arrow.

She makes a quick decision and rises to her feet, speeding quickly down the last couple of inches of concrete before dropping like a stone off the edge of the roof.

Her descent is short, only several feet, into the thin alley, and she lands in a crouch that would have torn both knees for a normal human.

Behind her, Karolina can hear an extremely-faint muffled thud. Someone else has landed in the alley, not as silently as her but with enough grace that Karolina can tell him to be an elegant acrobat.

She takes off with adrenaline thrumming through her veins. The stone-cobbled street that passes below her feet is uneven and cracked, and so, to quicken her escape, Karolina bounces between clinging to a wall before grabbing for the next and leaping across large expanses of alley.

The archer on her tail can be heard picking up speed. He is catching onto her routine, sometimes reaching only inches away from her.

Karolina, in a sudden burst of speed, darts down the alley, disappearing from the archer's view. Within seconds, however, she reaches a dead-end and whirls around, nowhere to go, nowhere but _up_.

She lunges for a wall, scrabbling up the side, and cling to a ridge.

When the archer comes running directly beneath her, Karolina lets go of the ridge and drops directly onto the archer's shoulders.

Within moments, she has flipped him onto the ground where he lies for a moment stunned before springing back to his feet.

He is tall and stocky, built like a boxer, with dirty-blond hair that flops onto his face, a square jaw, and gleaming blue eyes. Outfitted in a black, well-fitted uniform, he looks the full threat that he is, and Karolina can make out a sheath of arrows and bow strung on his back.

Then he's sliding a leg out to sweep Karolina off her feet and she jumps up, landing back lightly on her feet.

They begin to trade blows, jabs to the neck dodged and knees to the stomach avoided.

Karolina studies him as they fight, observing for a weakness. Despite his dependency on bows and rifles, the archer is a formidable opponent, and they are not that unevenly-matched. For every punch that Karolina throws, he parries it and sends back a fist of his own.

Eventually, though, Karolina finds an opening.

They have been fighting for several minutes now, completely silent except for the occasional grunt or growl. She feels fine, but the archer is visibly sweating. He obviously favors fighting with his right side; hence, his guard is weaker at his left side.

Karoline grabs his fist as the archer attempts to jab her in the neck, and she uses the momentum to knee him on the left side of his stomach.

The archer groans, staggering backwards, allowing Karolina to throw a flurry of well-strategized punches at his head.

But she has underestimated him.

The archer withstands her punches and, in a move that is pure overwhelming and unexpected force, jabs at a pressure point on her neck that has her knees buckling and vision darkening as she crumples to the floor.

XX

She comes to consciousness some time later, suddenly fully aware of her surroundings. She is slumped in an uncomfortable metal chair, pressed tightly against it, but she is not restrained. She's being kept in a warehouse

Karolina attempts to regulate her breathing to mimic unconsciousness, realizing too slow that there could be someone in the room with her. Her lack of stringent training is turning her soft; she is losing her edge. She is too late however, because a man is already beginning to speak.

"You're awake!" he says, surprised, his drawl identifying him as American and most likely from the Midwest. "I honestly expected you to wake up earlier, but you never know with the Soviet assassin-types."

Karolina chooses to ignore his odd remark. "Clinton Francis Barton. Codename Hawkeye. Born January 7, 1971 in Waverly, Iowa. One sibling, Agent Barney Barton of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Underground since 1992," she tells in an almost accusatory tone. She distractedly adds, "Threat assessment: level eight."

Despite the questionable lighting, Karolina is able to see Barton's eyes light up almost proudly upon hearing of his high threat assessment. A moment later, he frowns comically. "Wait. Does every assassin know all that information about me?" He doesn't sound frightened, instead disappointed. She hears him mutter something that sounds like, "Dammit, Phil."

"No. A mutual friend tipped me off that you were coming my way. I looked into you."

Barton steps closer, into the light, and Karolina can see that he is about twenty-five years old. He looks almost boyish in the flickering light. "Does this mutual friend have a name?"

"I don't know his legal name," she admits truthfully, pressing herself against the chair. "But I do believe that you most likely know him as Cheese."

There is a brief stab of interest in his eyes. "What about the girl, Agathe, then?" he asks cautiously.

"What about her?" Karolina shrugs nonchalantly.

"Why did you kill her?"

Her lungs feel coated with sandpaper when she swallows duly. "It was my job. It was my _last_ job."

Upon her emphasis on _last_ , Barton begins to appear conflicted. He appears to be torn between concern and understanding. "Hold on," he finally says as he reaches a hand to tap at something in his left ear.

She hears a faint burst of static that sounds like a communication line being disconnected as Barton pulls something compact from his ear and pockets it.

Finally, he turns to face her, smiling slightly. It is an earnest look, but Karolina has to remind herself that anyone can be misleading, even twenty-something archers with puppy-dog faces.

"My name is Clint Barton, that you already know. Everything you said was correct. Except for the last four years, I haven't been underground. I have been an agent of an organization called SHIELD, or the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. My supervising officer is Cheese, though his real name is Agent Phil Coulson. I have been…" Barton begins to talk about SHIELD and his line of work and how happy he is, and Karolina becomes painfully aware of what he is doing.

When he finally stops, Karolina asks him, "What do you know about me? Apart from what your SHIELD has told you about me."

Barton shrugs distractedly. "Not much. I know that you are called the Black Widow, credited with over twenty different jobs and seventeen different assassinations in the last five years. Your name has been coming up as Karolina Fyodora in SHIELD's database since 1991, though it's most likely an alias. You look a bit younger than me, but the Black Widow's a ghost story and has been heard of since the early 1960s. I figured that you were the same person and that someone had screwed with you and your head, fucked you up, and that you're now just out there in the world, trying to survive in the only shitty way you know how."

His analysis is surprising accurate.

"Did someone do that to you?" she asks cautiously.

"Nah." Barton waves her off. "Bad family environment growing up. Shitty dad. Brother and I got out, joined the circus. Turns out that it was another shitty environment." He takes a deep breath. "But Phil, he found me when I was in a terrible place. He pulled me out, brought me to SHIELD. Saved my life. I owe him and SHIELD everything. And now I would like to offer that to you."

Somewhere along the lines, Karolina knew that this proposal was coming, but she is still surprised. "Why me?" she questions softly, a crisp rasp to her voice.

"It's a savior complex," Barton jokes. "I'm always taking in strays. You wouldn't be the first, though you'd be the first human." He grins childishly. "So, what do you think?"

Karolina pretends to consider it, but she already knows her answer. There is no need to delay it. "Yes."

Barton nods his head casually. "Welcome to SHIELD, Karolina Fyodora."

"Not Karolina Fyodora." At his confused expression, she nearly laughs. "Caroline Forbes. New life, new name."

"Welcome to SHIELD, then, Caroline Forbes."

XX

 **Washington DC**

 **2009**

Caroline stretches out against her Egyptian cotton sheets, nearly purring at the pleasant tug at her sore muscles. Despite being incredibly comfortable cocooned in the warm blankets of her bed, she finds the ability to slide from her little nest and tiptoe to her kitchen.

Small and quaint but still containing everything top-of-the-line, her kitchen is always one of the best investments she makes when picking and designing a safe house. Her extreme paranoia and numerous enemies have always made it difficult to settle down somewhere permanently, which is why she can count the number of people on one hand who know the location of her favorite DC residence.

She is sipping perfectly-brewed coffee and frowning at the general emptiness in her pantry when her phone buzzes on the counter. Within seconds, it's flipped up into her hand, the call answered.

"Forbes," she says curtly as she closes her refrigerator door.

"Caroline!" comes the voice of SHIELD's Assistant Director Maria Hill. "Can you come in? There's a situation."

"What?" Caroline sighs irritably.

"I know, I know. You've been in DC for a day, and you definitely deserve some time off," Maria says distractedly, sounding incredibly stressed out. "But the Iran mission just got bumped up to priority number one."

Maria's a good friend, and Caroline knows that she wouldn't be contacting Caroline herself if the mission wasn't serious or urgent. "What happened? I thought Clint was on that," she muses, making her way to her bedroom. She cradles the phone between her ear and shoulder and pulls a large duffle bag from her closet, beginning to pack it neatly-folded piles of clothes and other necessities.

"Barton's out; he's in Thailand with STRIKE Team Delta. He won't make it in time." Maria is being to sound a little flustered; it sounds like she is walking briskly down a hallway. "We'll brief you quickly; all your gear is almost ready. Just get down to the Triskelion ASAP."

"Alright."

There is a soft beep as the call is cut. Caroline thumbs the button on the top of the device, powering the phone down and tossing it into the duffel bag.

After a quick shower, she pulls on well-fitted denim jeans, a lavender sweater, black combat boots, and her favorite black leather bomber jacket, lifting the duffle bag in one hand as she uses the other to lock the apartment door.

Having made sure that the thumbprint scanner is secure, Caroline tucks the physical key into her pocket.

Then she turns, heaves her bag against her bag, and makes her way down to the street.

XX

 **Triskelion, SHIELD HQ**

 **Washington DC**

 **2009**

"Our man is a nuclear scientist, alias Kingfisher," Maria explains as she pulls a map up onto the holographic screen in the conference room.

"Kingfisher?" Caroline questions as she studies the files on her tablet, flipping through pages by swiping at the glass screen.

"He's one of Fury's personal consultants, always been completely off the grid. Fury's calling him in again. Kingfisher was supposed to fly in, but his security has been compromised." Maria reaches out to pinch a spot on the holographic screen, zooming in on the map. It lights up, displaying the country of Iran.

"So I'm a security detail?" Caroline sighs, beginning to appear a little irritated. "When you say compromised…"

"When I say compromised, I say that the pilot we sent out to get Kingfisher returned." There is a long pause before Maria speaks again carefully, "In bloody pieces-in a box."

Despite herself, Caroline shivers.

Maria continues, focusing her sober steel-grey gaze on Caroline, "Consider it an extraction. You will meet Kingfisher in Tehran at 0800 hours IRDT. After that, you're all alone."

Caroline gathers her blond hair into a fist, winding a silky lock around her wrist. "Time?"

"You've got 54 hours to get to Kiev. A Quinjet will be waiting for you; you'll have a ten-hour window after that. Once your window's up, both you and Kingfisher will be declared KIA."

Caroline shrugs nonchalantly. "Same old, same old." Rising to her feet, she pockets the tablet and begins to exit the conference room.

"And, Forbes," Maria calls.

"Yeah, Hill?" Caroline glances over her shoulder to gaze at the Assistant Director.

"Fury says that he's sorry about the pigeon."

XX

 **Tehran, Iran**

 **2009**

Kingfisher is a man well into his late sixties, with dark shaggy hair flecked with grey, tanned leathery skin, and vulture-like nose. Despite that, his dark eyes are shrewd, and it takes only one look at Caroline for him to level a slim black rod near her forehead threateningly.

"Tell me who you are. Anything else, any sudden moves and I will fry your brain," he says in crisp, curt English, no trace of any accent, as he thumbs a switch at the base of the rod. There is a small hum as the top of the rod flares brightly, crackling with blue electricity. Kingfisher shifts the Taser-like device closer to Caroline's forehead, and she can barely avoid flinching.

Her brain and electricity have a history older than the Vietnam War.

"Fury sent me," Caroline says calmly, forcing her mind to focus on the man in front of her.

"Likely," he responds in a guarded tone.

"Fury says that he's sorry about the pigeon."

Kingfisher cocks his head, studying Caroline with such intent that only years of experience keeps her expression blank. Finally, having apparently found nothing amiss, he begrudgingly states, "Fury's agents are usually… less Barbie."

"I'm sorry that my hair is too blonde and that I am too plastic to do my job," Caroline replies dryly. "Fury's consultants are usually less bitchy."

"What do I call you?" he asks.

"Call me the Widow, or call me nothing at all," she orders firmly. "Now, get in the car."

XX

 **Near the southern Moldova-Ukraine border**

 **2009**

Thirty hours, six different cars, three brief meals, and one ferry later, Caroline and Kingfisher are finally in Ukraine.

Caroline has been driving the entire time, Kingfisher having never offered to switch off, and the only reason that she has not collapsed of exhaustion is both the adrenaline booster pills she keeps popping and her fucked-up enhanced biology.

They have been sitting in tense silence so thick that it would need to be sliced by a knife the entire time, and even Caroline's torture-instilled patience is beginning to run out.

Their Ukrainian version of a Jeep is the only car on the road as they travel through miles of forest and up torturous dirt paths.

"Where are we?" asks Kingfisher, some of the few words he's spoken to her in hours. His voice is loud and abrupt, words echoing in the large Jeep.

"Near Odessa," Caroline answers, rolling her aching shoulders. "Just a few more hours."

Kingfisher glances at her with an odd look in his dark eyes. "We should stop soon, rest for a few hours. You must be exhausted."

"No," Caroline insists. "We have no time-"

With a loud thump, their Jeep pitches forward, unbalanced, and then jerks out of Caroline's control.

It skids off the road, and the Jeep creaks ominously as it continues to move.

There is a quiet click, and Caroline turns, panicked, to find Kingfisher unclipping his seatbelt.

She opens her mouth to tell him to stop, but there is a long, heart-pulverizing moment of weightlessness as Caroline realizes that the Jeep has slid off the road and straight off a cliff.

Then gravity takes over, and, as the Jeep drops with incredible speed, Caroline finds her throat clogging with panic and blacks out, momentarily aware of Kingfisher in her peripheral vision.

She comes back into consciousness with _white-hot flames_ licking up her side.

There is a stab in her side every time she inhales or exhales, but she has higher priorities.

Caroline is still strapped to her seat and still attached to the Ukrainian Jeep, though still calling it a Jeep now would be a bit of a stretch.

The outer shell, mangled and ugly, remains, crashed and jagged around Caroline. There is shattered glass and plastic that shifts as Caroline reaches a hand around her stomach to unclip her seatbelt.

As soon as she is untethered, Caroline turns onto her side, immediately moaning in pain, and almost blacks out again.

" _Come on, you idiot_. _You have a job to do_ ," she murmurs to herself in Russian, slowly crawling out of the remains of the Jeep. She gasps for breath, vision swimming, but slowly her bloodied palm brushes the rough rock of the ground.

The entire accident has taken approximately fifteen minutes, but Caroline is not fool enough to believe that this was an accident.

Their tires were shot out deliberately, and Caroline still is on a mission. She has Kingfisher to protect.

There is the sound of rubble shifting, and someone behind Caroline cries out in pain, low and masculine.

Caroline tracks the sound and finds Kingfisher pinned between the body of the Jeep and a rock. There is an alarming amount of blood surrounding him, but Caroline breathes a little easier when she realizes that it's all from a head wound.

She goes to hurl the Jeep off of him or at least create a space loose enough for him to roll from the rock when he holds out a silent hand.

Caroline takes a step back, unsure of how to proceed.

"Don't," Kingfisher rasps, his voice rough. He attempts to sit up but slumps back down in a moment.

Caroline immediately realizes why: there is a long, jagged end of the Jeep's frame jutting up from Kingfisher's stomach, having impaled him. It is barely hidden by the crushed Jeep.

"Oh," she breathes slowly, kneeling next to the man. She ghosts her hand over Kingfisher's shirt darkened and dampened with blood.

His wound is too deep; Caroline had misidentified most of it from the head wound. Bleeding out will be long and painful, but moving him will be even more.

"Have you ever been afraid of death, Widow?" Kingfisher murmurs quietly, voice so low that it barely registers in Caroline's mind that he spoke.

She ponders that question for a few minutes, rolling possible answers on her tongue; finally, she settles on the truth, because who is she to lie to a dying man.

"No," Caroline replies honestly, head tilted in consideration. "Not since I became a SHIELD agent."

"And before?" Kingfisher asks again, attention turning from Caroline's wan face to the open sky above them. He sounds genuinely curious; if this is his idea of comfort in his dying moments, Caroline won't deny him of that.

"I…don't remember," she admits cautiously. "Before SHIELD…there's not much I remember; someone fucked with my mind and with my body." The silence between them is tense and filled with Kingfisher's heavy breathing, so she blurts out, "But, when I think of death, I think of flames. Fire burning around you, heavy smoke making it hard to breath, dry heat on your skin."

"Thank you," he says in appreciation, settling back against the rock with a suppressed whimper. "I grow thankful that when I die, my ideas, everything I ever worked on, dies with me, in my head."

She nods silently, but, at the prickle of hair on the back of her neck, she is instantly alert. With fluid movement, she flips up, covering Kingfisher's bleeding body with her own, unwilling to leave him vulnerable to anymore danger.

Fifty feet above, perched on the cliff edge, _he_ stands, gun aimed towards Caroline and the body beneath her. He cuts an imposing figure against the setting sun, outfitted completely in black Kevlar and a full-face mask. His hair peeks out from the mask, sandy blonde and shaggy.

When he moves silently, his left arm twitches by his side, catching the light. It is shiny and reflective and completely metal.

Something flickers at the back of Caroline's mind, stories about an assassin so secretive that he was a ghost. Metal-armed, always wearing black, credited with over 100 confirmed kills. A sniper so precise and deadly that he never missed. Rumors, ghost stories, that dated past the last fifty years.

 _The Winter Soldier_.

The grace with which he cocks his gun is inherently familiar, and Caroline can picture his fingers wrapping around the handle of the gun and squeezing the trigger quite vividly.

 _Why?_

"Fuck," she whispers harshly. Beneath her, Kingfisher's breathing has teetered off; he is alive but just barely.

The Soldier squeezes the trigger.

Caroline watches the bullet fly, and she can pinpoint the exact moment it tears through her skin. Kingfisher stiffens, and Caroline can tell that he too has been shot.

A clean shot, went straight through her.

She moves a hand to clutch at her abdomen, fingers attempting to stop the gushing flow of blood.

Caroline stares up at the silhouette of the Winter Soldier until he disappears and all that remains is open, blue sky.

Her lips struggle to form the shape of a name she cannot remember, but they too still as she falls into unconsciousness.

XX

 **SHIELD Medical Center**

 **New York**

 **2009**

She is dimly aware of someone ranting and pacing besides her hospital bed.

"Fuck. I'm gone on a mission for three days, and you managed to not only screw your mission up and get Fury's asset murdered, but you also total a car and get yourself shot. How can you be such a god-damned screw-up?" Clint Barton rages as he runs a shaky hand through his cropped hair. In the thirteen years since Caroline joined SHIELD, Clint got married, bought a farm in Iowa for his slowly-growing family, and turned 37. His years barely show on his face most of the time, but, if seen closely, the wrinkles below his eyes are indication of his incredibly stressful lifestyle.

Of course, Caroline has not aged a day.

"Pot calling kettle," Caroline groans as her eyes flicker open.

Clint jumps but covers his evident relief with rousing sarcasm. "Finally. Looks like you decided to stop being a drama queen, Care."

"Again," she states. "Pot calling kettle," She repeats.

He scowls playfully at her. "You're lucky I didn't call Laura before I was sent it to pick up you. She would have raged up a storm until she saw you."

Caroline sits up, ignoring Clint's insistence that she stay laying down. Her body aches, but no wounds seem to open back up. She appears to be relatively healed.

"How long has it been?" she questions Clint.

"Four days," Clint tells her, handing Caroline a glass of water from the hospital side table.

She guzzles it down, mindful of the sharp dryness in her throat. "What happened?"

"You remember the mission?" he asks carefully.

"Yeah." Caroline nods slowly. "I remember we crashed…"

"And then, your mission was hijacked by a ghost assassin who no one believes actually exists." Clint frowns down on her. He is not pissed with her, but there is something he is not telling her. "He shot Kingfisher through you. In and out, clean exit wound. Should have killed you too."

"But I'm special," Caroline remarks dryly. "How long did it take to heal?"

"Wound closed up yesterday. Medical wants you to stay back for another day."

"Fuck no," she snorts as she pulls her hospital gown apart enough to eye the scar on her abdomen.

She winces. "Fuck…"

Clint's seen her naked enough times to not care out the condition of her body. "Yeah." He nods towards the healed wound. "It scarred pretty damn ugly. Bye, bye crop tops."

"More like, bye, bye bikinis."

Their gaze meets, blue to blue, and they both chuckle.

"What else?" Caroline asks.

"Oh," Clint remembers as he snaps his fingers. "A couple of broken ribs. They healed the first day, though you still be a little sore."

"How's Laura?" Caroline asks earnestly.

"Pregnant, cranky. You know how it is." Clint smiles fondly, obviously thinking of his wife. "It's gonna be a girl. We want to call her Lila."

"Caroline's always a pretty name," she states mischievously.

"We're not naming my second child after you, Forbes," Clint snaps playfully at her. "Don't want baby Barton numero dos to start looking up to your ugly mug."

"With you as a father, no one can be sure," Caroline teases back, pale lips tugging in a genuine grin. "When is she due?"

"A month."

"I'm going to visit soon. It's been a while since Cooper's seen his Aunt Care."

"He's three. He doesn't remember you." Clint smirks at Caroline mockingly.

"I'll buy him a puppy; he'll definitely remember me then."

"Whatever," he grumbles before his expression becomes sober. It is such a rare thing to see Clint completely serious that Caroline stiffens. "Caroline," Clint begins softly, "when we were airlifting you to the hospital, you drifted in and out of consciousness."

"Yeah…" Caroline says softly in reply.

"You were calling out for someone named _Nik_ ," Clint tells her concernedly.

"I don't remember," Caroline admits.

"Ok," Clint says, "I believe you." He rises to exit the hospital room, but as he turns, Caroline places a gentle hand on his wrist.

"Clint," she calls after him. "Thank you. You gave me something I couldn't remember."

"You're welcome," Clint replies as he hums distractedly.

 _Nik_.

Caroline's lips form the shape of the name, trying it, testing it out as it weighs heavily on her tongue.

 _Nik_.

XX

 **SHIELD Medical Center**

 **New York**

 **2009**

" _Your hair is liquid gold, solnyshka," he tells her in a familiar cadence of Russian as he twines a silky blond lock between his fingers, rubbing it softly._

 _They lie together on a dirtied mat on the floor, huddling together long after their heaving sighs and moans of pleasure died down. Through the square window high above, the faint, bleak light of Russian winter comes filtering in._

" _The other Widows have such dark hair, red, brown, black. The targets see you; they see an angel. That's what makes you the deadliest little spider, solnyshka." His hushed murmur warms against her skin, breath fogging visibly._

" _Soldat?" she asks quietly, unassumingly._

 _She wonders where he learned to speak like this, sweet and almost lovingly. The Red Room couldn't have taught him; they shaped weapons to be cruel and ruthless, not sweet and soft and loving._

" _They can fuck with my brain all they want, fry my memories as many times possible, but sunshine hair never leaves me, solnyshka. Sunshine hair stays with me everywhere I go." He laughs, low, desperate, bitter, jagged._

 _It is not the laugh of a weapon; it is the laugh of a man._

 _The Red Room will upset again; the Soldat is not supposed to be a man._

 _He is not supposed to have a laugh of freezing, cold tundra winds._

 _She is not supposed to be told that she is an angel with sunshine hair._

" _Soldat?" she repeats again with more urgency._

Caroline shoves herself upright in the hospital bed, chest heaving with quick, dry breaths. Perspiration runs down from her forehead and down her neck, dampening the collar of her hospital gown.

Her head is aching, aching like it hasn't in years, not since she realized that her mind was hers and hers alone.

 _Nik_.

 _Nik._

 _Nik._

The name chants like a mantra through her mind, echoing between her dulling ears, as she settles back against the dumpy, cheap pillow and stares at the flickering, florescent lights of the ceiling.

 _Nik._

* * *

drop a line below if you enjoyed this chapter


	3. 3

warning: flashbacks, references to past MCU (Marvel Cinematic Universe) events/movies, depression/depressed character, unhealthy coping, grieving, supportive friends, mentions of past and slight current male/male (Steve/Klaus)

enjoy.

* * *

 **The** _ **Valkyrie**_

 **March 4, 1945**

" _Steve, is that you? Are you alright?_ "

Despite the burst of static from the radio, Steve can hear Peggy's voice clearly.

"Peggy, Schmidt's dead!" he tells her.

" _What about the plane?_ " Peggy asks.

"That's a little," Steve glances around the plane, eyeing the hole in the side uneasily, "bit tougher to explain."

" _Give me your coordinates; I'll find you a safe landing site_ ," she orders, confusion blurring the crisp undertones of her accent.

"There's not going to be a safe landing." Steve pauses, able to hear Peggy gasp softly. "But, I can try and force it down."

" _I'll get Howard on the line; he'll know what to do._ " There is steely determination in her voice. Steve can imagine her beautiful brown eyes glinting stubbornly.

"There's not enough time. This thing's moving too fast, and it's heading for New York." Steve shifts the controller, pointing the plane down towards the ice. "I gotta put her in the water."

" _Please, don't do this_ ," Peggy tells him. Steve swallows roughly as he hears her voice break. " _We have time. We can work it out._ "

"Right now, I'm in the middle of nowhere. If I wait any longer, a lot of people are gonna die." A sea of white, ice, comes into view of the plane. Steve gazes down at it sorrowfully. "Peggy, this is my choice," he tells her. When she doesn't reply, he repeats, "Peggy?"

" _I'm here,_ " Peggy says, voice airy in slight disbelief.

"I'm gonna need a raincheck on that dance."

He can hear her sniffle.

" _Alright. A week. Next Saturday, at the Stork Club._ "

He can picture her now, standing alone at the bar, hair in gorgeous waves, stunning in the same red dress she wore at the bar in London, trademark red lips.

"You got it." Steve gives her an unseen nod.

He saw a future with her, can see a future with her. He would take her back to Brooklyn. They would get married in the same little church his parents married in. Nik would be his best man-

 _His best friend's desperate scream echoes through Steve's ears as Nik falls into the vast, snowy beyond, body growing smaller and smaller until he disappears completely, Steve still clutching to the train, frozen in shock, mind unable to process what just happened._

" _Eight o'clock on the dot. Don't you dare be late!_ " she attempts to chide him playfully, voice betraying her woeful emotions. " _Understood?_ "

"You know, I still don't know how to dance," Steve remarks wistfully.

Nik had attempted to teach him, but he was at no fault that Steve had two left feet.

 _Oh god._

Steve thinks back to the last time he saw his best friend before his deployment.

At the World Expo. Nik dressed dapperly in his uniform, cap placed at a jaunty angle. His striking blue eyes crinkling as he flirted with both their dates, his sandy curls mussed from their carefully-groomed style when he lifted the cap. His wickedly-endearing, handsome smirk, the deep, lilting tones of his accented voice when he told Steve, _Don't do anything stupid before I get back_.

And Steve had told him, _How can I? You're taking all the stupid with you._

Steve doesn't know how he can live without seeing Nik's face every day, just as he had for the last twenty years.

 _He didn't get to tell Nik that he loved him, that he loved him as more than a brother, that he had loved him since they were fifteen._

" _I'll show you how. Just be there._ " Now, Peggy makes no attempt to hide the pain in her voice, her quiet sniffles amplified by the radio.

Steve watches as the ice grows closer, a blinding field of white spread out in front of him.

 _Is this what Nik saw as he fell_?

He closes his eyes and accepts his fate.

To Peggy, he speaks again, "You'll have the band play somethin' slow. I'd hate to step on your-"

" _Steve? Steve? Steve?_ "

XX

 **New York**

 **May 3, 2012**

In the aftermath of the Battle of New York, Steve quietly returned to his apartment on the Lower East Side.

He hasn't dared to return to Brooklyn in the few weeks since he woke up from the ice. There isn't anything left there for Steve. Fury told him that both the site of the former tenement where Steve and Nik were born and the apartment that they had rented since 1936 were famous New York landmarks. Most of Steve's belongings ended up under the care of the Smithsonian.

All Steve has remaining of his original belongings was whatever Peggy had managed to secure from the SSR archives when she had founded SHIELD.

All of Nik's belongings from their apartment and from his army quarters had been sent up to his sister Bekah in London in after his death. Bekah herself had passed away in 1996; Steve doesn't know if she had had any children.

Outside his window, the city is beginning to rebuild. It always does.

Steve is tired, aching, and bruised. There is a nasty wound on his abdomen that is beginning to heal, and most of his other injuries have already begun to fade.

It can be after any other battle in 1944 with the Howling Commandos celebrating in a pub, Dum Dum loudly bursting into a drinking song, Monty and Morita making sly digs at each other, Gabe and Dernier holding noisy discussion in French, and Steve and Nik reminiscing about some old memory from Brooklyn.

Except it isn't.

There is a sharp knock on Steve's front door, and he goes to open it.

"Hey, Cap." Agent Forbes smiles at him tiredly, her hair pulled back in the same ponytail from yesterday, albeit with the blood and gore. She is dressed comfortably in jeans and a loose white top with a green cardigan. "Heard you took off after the Battle."

"Agent Forbes," Steve greets her politely, although in confusion. "How are you?"

"God, we fought aliens together. Call me Caroline." At that point, Agent Forbes Caroline holds up a heavy plastic bag of white container and tells him, "I brought takeout. Hope you like Mexican."

"Oh." Steve is unsure how to reply. "Thank you, but I'm actually not hungry."

"When was the last time you ate?" Caroline asks him pointedly.

He really can't remember. "Shawarma after the Battle," he admits truthfully. "But, really, you didn't have to go through the trouble."

Caroline's eyes narrow. "Cut the shit, Captain. I know that your supersoldier body means that you have a supersoldier metabolism. I also know that you haven't eaten in about twelve hours. If you were a normal human, after all that physical exertion, you would have fainted. Now, open the door and find me plates."

Stunned, Steve steps aside, letting her enter and watching as she begins to rummage through his mostly-bare kitchen. He closes the door and wades into his living room, taking a seat at his kitchen counter.

He is not sure what to make of Caroline.

When he first met her aboard the helicarrier, he had almost underestimated her from her lithe, petite frame, blond curls, fair skin, and cerulean eyes. She had seemed stolid and obedient, a good soldier.

Now, Steve realizes that he had only been seeing what Caroline wanted him to. During the Battle, she had fought with deadly grace and near-perfect aim. Her silence and fluidity, both in and out of combat, made her a formidable ally in Steve's eyes.

But, the real Caroline Forbes that Steve had caught brief glimpses in during the Battle and is seeing now seems to be confident and fierce but also, as seen by Steve in her interactions with Barton, loyal, protective, and, caring.

"You okay there?" Caroline asks him as she plates something wrapped in a tortilla.

Steve thinks about offering to help, his ma raised him a certain way after all, but is pretty sure that she will refuse him. "Fine," he tells her slowly. "Just a little tired." Steve flashes her a poster-boy smile, one of his many expressions that he had time to perfect during the USO tours.

"I'm a spy, Steve," she tells him bluntly, "I spent two months undercover as Stark's PA when he thought he was dying. I know deflection and deception like the back of my hand. So tell me honestly, how are you _really_?"

There's something about Caroline's honest nature, and the fact that Steve is a very shitty liar (always has been), that compels him to blurt out, "Not good."

Awkwardly, he attempts to clarify, "I'm really not good."

Caroline raises an elegant eyebrow expectantly, waiting for him to explain.

Steve sighs. "When I put the plane in the ice, I expected to die. But then I wake up in a world that completely alien to me, and everyone I ever knew is dead or near close to it." He takes a deep breath, realizing that he is about to say what he has never admitted to anyone. "There were some days after I woke where I couldn't get out of the bed. I would just lie there; I had no energy to do anything."

"Depression," Caroline surmises softly.

"Yeah." Steve nods. "No one ever really discussed mental health or considered it to be an actual condition in my time. There was always an asylum and electroshock therapy."

Something about the mention of electroshock therapy has Caroline swallowing roughly, face contorting into a bitter expression. Before Steve can ask her about it, her face smooths out, and she is speaking again. "There are therapists to help with that now. There are also anti-depressants and other meds. You're not alone. There are so many people out there in the world who also suffer from depression. Hell, Stark, Banner, Clint, even me, we all suffer from our own traumas and pasts."

Steve smiles slightly in understanding, though there is still a glimmer of sadness in his blue eyes. "I know," he tells her. "But that doesn't make it any easier."

Instead of responding to that, Caroline silently hands him a plate, not forcing him to elaborate on his previous statement, which Steve really does appreciate.

They eat in relative silence, Steve taking tentative bites of his taco at first. It is an unusual taste for him after the bland food that he cooks for himself, the spiced meat and cheese together with the creamy guacamole and sour cream, but he finds himself liking it.

"Did SHIELD ever set you up with a therapist?" asks Caroline, polishing off the remains of her burrito.

"No," Steve says, staring at his empty plate mournfully. "There wasn't enough time. They were too busy making sure that I didn't accidentally offend anyone and get into a bar fight."

Caroline smirks both at his comment and his expression, handing him another foil-wrapped item. "That's a quesadilla," she tells him. "Eat up; it's delicious. Just meat and cheese."

"I know what a quesadilla is," Steve comments reproachfully. "I'm from Brooklyn. I grew up in a neighborhood with Mexicans, Italians, Greeks, Irish, just name it."

While he wolfs down his quesadilla hungrily, Caroline begins to talk. "I managed to convince Fury to give the Avengers-"

"Hold on." Steve holds up a palm to gesture Caroline to pause. "Are we really calling ourselves the Avengers?"

She shrugs. "It was Stark's idea originally; he did some interview with it, and, now, the media is beginning to throw it around. It's not as bad as some of the other names the media has tried."

"Like what?"

"They tried calling us the Defenders. Like the Defenders of New York City."

Steve snorts good-humoredly. "The Avengers is catchy. Definitely better than the Defenders."

Caroline nods distractedly in agreement. "Right. So Fury has given us all two days then he wants us back, all of us, to debrief. Then, come Monday, Stark, you, and I are heading to DC to meet with the President."

He nods in understanding. "Alright."

"After that, well, Fury will want you to join up with SHIELD, run missions and things like that. But, before all that will come a psych evaluation…" Caroline falters upon seeing Steve's hesitant expression. "They can help you, Steve. Trust me, SHIELD will help you, or at least keep you busy. Even if it is not done out of their personal concern, you are a valuable asset to SHIELD, and they will take care of you because of that."

Steve still doesn't speak; he does not know how to respond. Finally, he tells Caroline, "Thank you."

"For what?" Caroline smirks. "We saved the world less than twenty-four hours ago. You deserve this; we deserve this."

"Yeah, yeah," he replies offhandedly.

Caroline places their dishes in the sink, rinsing them off, and then in the washing machine, setting it for a cycle. "Hey," she says softly as she comes to Steve's side. "Stark's going to come to you about building an apartment in his Tower. Tell him yes. He's going to be going through some tough times in the next few months; he needs this to keep himself distracted. I know that Pepper will ask you the same thing soon."

There's an ugly tug of guilt in his stomach. "I practically accused Tony of not knowing what sacrifice is. I owe it to him," Steve answers bitterly.

"Hey, hey." Caroline rests a hand over Steve's forearm. "You were not the reason he flew through the wormhole; none of us are. He was forced to make a choice, and so he made the one he thought best."

"Thanks." Steve pauses awkwardly before continuing, "Thanks for everything."

"Any time, Rogers," Caroline says as she heads out the door. "I mean, we are going to be fellow Avengers together."

The door closes with a noisy bang behind her, and Steve is left in the apartment, the silence that follows almost unsettling.

Maybe, Caroline's right. Maybe, it will all get better. At least, it's time for Steve to try anyway.

XX

 **Wyoming**

 **March 9, 2013**

"Hey, Cap!" Barton says, "Got another squad heading your way."

"How many?" Steve asks, peering down the ledge, Caroline by his side.

"I count seven," Barton replies.

"I got it. Go radio-silent," Steve orders.

"Copy that."

When the quiet click indicates that Barton has gone offline, Steve turns to Caroline. "Get to their computer system and wipe their hard drive clean. If AIM plans to rebuild, we want to limit their resources as much as possible."

As the sound of footsteps grow closer, they share a glance. Steve counts down. _One. Two. Three._ He gives Caroline a slight nod.

Immediately, he drops into the formation of men, barely giving an operative a chance to sputter, "Hey! It's Captain Amer-," before Steve knocks him out with a punch to his forehead.

With swiftness, Steve clubs one on the head who drops like a stone, sweeps another off his feet, head-butts another, elbows two more in the gut, and dodges a punch from the final operative. He then picks the man and flings him to the floor, effectively knocking him unconscious. Within moments, all men lay incapacitated on the floor, groaning in pain or clutching bruised limbs, before anyone had a chance to draw a gun.

"Barton," Steve speaks into his comm, "got any more fun heading my way?" When Clint fails to respond, he tries again. "Hawkeye, speak to me."

"Rogers." There's Caroline speaking through now on a separate commlink. "Wiping the computer infrastructure."

"Good," Steve tells her affirmatively. "Any news on Barton? His commlink's down."

"He's probably just preoccupied," Caroline suggests distractedly. "Give him a few minutes."

"When you're done, check him out," Steve orders. At the thunderous roar of footsteps, he freezes, attempting to identify the number of men. He estimates at least twenty. "Widow, I've been made. Got twenty heading towards me."

"Do your thing, Cap," she says. "We'll be there in ten."

Steve lifts his shield from its hook on the back of his uniform and slides his right hand through the straps. Clutching the shield tightly in front of him, he charges into the incoming crowd of men.

He barrels through the formation, knocking men off their feet and sending them flying into the walls of the tunnel.

In the confusion and yelling that ensues, Steve dodges most of the blows aimed towards them or deflects them off his shield, using it to force his way to the end of the tunnel.

When he reaches a corner where pale light, natural light, illuminates the darkness, he looks up and predictably finds a grate set in the ceiling of the tunnel. He can hear the groans of the men recovering from his attack but doesn't spare them a glance.

Instead, he crouches down, brings the shield over his head, and _jumps_.

He crashes through the grate, the metal flying through the air from the impact until it lands in the snow, crumpled. Steve himself dives to the right and lands on his feet. Immediately, he breaks off into a run.

Dashing past the trees, snow crunching below his boots, he clears the forest in minutes and arrives at the extraction point where Caroline and Clint are waiting.

Clint is leaning on the petite blonde, an arm slung around her waist for support, and he has a bruise on his jaw and the beginning of a black eye.

"What happened?" Steve asks in concern.

"Ran into a few problems getting to the extraction point. Caroline found me," Clint tells him gratefully.

"And the mission?"

"Successful," Caroline drawls lazily, tilting her face up to the darkening sky. "Now, STRIKE's going to go it and clear everything out before setting the explosives up."

Steve nods silently, glancing around the clearing as they wait for their ride.

XX

 **Triskelion**

 **Washington DC**

 **March 10, 2013**

"There's not much to say," Hill declares immediately as they enter the debriefing room. "It was a standard op, in and out, no casualties. Successful." She smirks a little, one of the few expressions of hers that Steve has been gone recognize as pride.

"So we can go?" Clint questions, holding an ice pack to his jaw.

"Yeah," Hill replies.

Clint stretches out his legs before limping out of the debriefing room. Caroline rolls her eyes at him as he leaves.

"Come on," she tells Steve as Hill begins to exit the room. "I know a good Indian place while you're in town."

"Nah," Steve says, pasting a convincing smile on his face. His heart aches, the sorrow and grief that is especially fresh on today's date threatening to overwhelm him. and Steve is glad that he is in Washington DC today. He doesn't know what he would do if he was anywhere near Brooklyn. "I'm good."

Caroline isn't fooled, proven she smiles at disbelievingly at him. "I know your refusal of my gratuitous offer has nothing to do with a sudden dislike of Indian food, because last time you finished a dish of palak paneer all by yourself. And I had ordered it extra-large." She sighs, tiredly running a hand through her disheveled hair. "I know what day it is. I know my history; I'm good with dates. So, tell me, what's wrong?"

He smiles a little now, genuinely, at Caroline's stubbornness. "It's my best friend's birthday, the same best friend that I couldn't save from falling off a train."

Immediately, he can tell by Caroline's frown that he has said something that she takes offense at. "Stop, Steve, stop," she orders. "I know that your SHIELD therapists told you this all time: his death wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done."

"I could have paid more attention to our surroundings and stopped the HYDRA agent from sneaking up on him," he counters bull headedly.

"No, Steve," Caroline rebuts him coldly. "Sergeant Mikaelson's death was _not_ your fault. I know you stopped seeing the therapists after they declared you okay for field work, but they were right about you. You have a savior complex. You _need_ to save everyone, and if you can't, then it's your fault."

"Caroli-"

"You have to hear this, Steve. You can't save everyone; their deaths are not on you." She gazes at him with hardened eyes. "I am older than I look, not as old as you but still old. I _cannot remember_ the first twenty years of my life aside my flashes and scraps of distorted memory. Before SHIELD, I was an assassin, a killer. The earliest solid memory I have is shooting a target point-blank between the eyes." While her voice does not grow louder, it is _dripping_ with anger. "I did _so many_ things I am not proud of to survive. I took so many lives, but I had a rule, no collateral damage. There was a reason I gained the reputation I had as the Black Widow. _My ledger is dripping red, but I do what I have to do to sleep at night!_ " Having hissed that last statement, she shuts down, eyes blanking, pale mouth still twisted in an ugly frown. "I'm sorry," she says, brows furrowing slightly. "Today should not be about me; it should be about comforting you. Forget what I said."

"Caroline," he tries to interrupt again, mind turbulent with her admissions.

"No, Steve, let's not talk about it," she says, kinder this time. Craning her neck all of a sudden, she sniffs her SHIELD jumpsuit, recoiling immediately, and laughs. "Shit. That was me all along. I thought you were the one who stunk, with your super-soldier sweat. Shit. I need to take a bath."

He stares at her blankly, mouth tripping as he assesses how to respond. Finally, he eloquently sputters, "What?"

"Right," she says, avoiding his gaze. "Go shower, get changed, and meet me in the lobby in ten minutes. Dress nicely."

"Where are we going?" he asks hesitantly.

"To drink to the honor of your dead best friend," Caroline tells him bluntly before trudging quickly from the debriefing room.

In the silence that follows her absence, Steve's gaze returns to the wall, analyzing the cracks and stains.

He doesn't feel like Captain America right now; he feels small, smaller than Steve Rogers was before Dr. Erskine found him in waiting room across the street from the World Expo.

XX

 **Triskelion**

 **Washington DC**

 **March 10, 2013**

When Steve arrives in the lobby, freshly showered, from the room he's residing in, he's dressed in what he perceives to be nicely in a dark blue button-down and jeans. He avoids glancing down at his shirt and flashing back seventy years to Nik by his side in the trademark blue coat.

Caroline appears moments later in a similar outfit of a white floral button-down and jeans, hair falling loosely in her face as she steps out of the nearest elevator.

"You cleaned up nicely," she comments, though it sounds listless to Steve's weary ears.

"Not as prettily as you do," he remarks in return.

"Don't tell lies, Steve." She laughs. "It doesn't suit your age."

She appears to have forgotten the incident in the debriefing room, but Steve knows better, knows that she's a master of deception.

"Thanks," he says dryly. "Where to?"

"I know a place," she tells him as they stride out of the Triskelion.

A five-minute taxi ride later, and Steve and Caroline are seated in small but quaint Indian restaurant, digging into biryani.

"So, tell me about him," Caroline says as she takes a bite. "Who was the mysterious Sergeant Mikaelson of the Howling Commandos, American war hero?" she asks in a playful tone.

"Technically," he corrects her, grinning at her antics, "he was Sergeant Mikaelson of the 107th Infantry Regiment. But before that, he was Niklaus Ansel Mikaelson from Brooklyn, my best friend." Ignoring the slight twinge in his heart, Steve allows himself to recall the familiar crooked smirk. "Everyone called him Nik."

Too busy reminiscing, Steve misses Caroline's slight wince at the nickname, her eyes growing troubled for a moment. Then she beams mischievously at him. "You look like you're in love," she remarks freely, carelessly. When Steve fails to respond, her eyes soften. "You loved him, didn't you?"

He breathes deeply before speaking. "It was a long time ago, and I never told him, but, yes, I loved him."

She senses his reluctance to elaborate, wisely changing the subject. "So, Nik Mikaelson. The ladies must have loved him."

"Yeah, dames always flocked to him," he says, slipping into his old Brooklyn accent and slang naturally. "Something magnetizing about that ridiculous accent and the stupid face and those eyes."

"Yeah, I heard he was quite a looker." Caroline forks a piece of chicken and swallows it.

"He was very much a pretty boy," Steve admits, "but it was more of his eyes. They were gorgeous. Large and wide. But the color I always couldn't do justice to. They were this deep, _deep_ dark blue, striking and flecked with grey. He'd glance at you with those eyes, and you would feel compelled to do anything for him. They were the reason I got stuck riding the Cyclone at Coney Island."

So Steve talks and talks, weight lifting from his chest with each word he spills about Nik, each complaint, each regret. The mostly one-sided conversation carries on late at night, all the way to Steve's hotel room until Caroline is forced to leave to prepare for another mission.

In the end, Steve can feel that aching beginning to heal, just a little bit.

* * *

drop a line below if you enjoyed this chapter. if you have any questions, comments or suggestions, you can also PM me or find me on tumblr princess-of-the-worlds where i cry over klaroline, stucky, and all things in between.


	4. 4

warning: flashbacks, recovery from injuries and mindcontrol, minor character death, violence, implied/referenced suicide

enjoy

* * *

 **Near the Potomac River**

 **Washington DC**

 **April 4, 2014**

" _People are going to die, Nik. I can't let that happen…. Please don't make me do this._ "

" _You know me_."

" _Nik, you've known me your whole life. Your name is Niklaus Ansel Mikaelson_."

" _I'm not going to fight you. You're my friend_."

" _You're my mission. You're my mission._ "

" _Then finish it. Cause I'm with you to the end of the line_."

The Asset drops the Captain's waterlogged body on the banks of the Potomac River, both of them barely visible among the scraggly trees lining the shore.

The Captain's head lolls against the scratchy grass, damp hair tangling amongst the weeds, water gushing from his gaping mouth. Between the garishly-colored armor of his uniform, his chest rises and falls, barely. His face, carved from marble, is wan, a nasty scar running along the right side of his face.

The Asset glances down at Captain's body, stepping away from him slowly and with caution. As it eyes the Captain's prominent nose and proud chin and closed eyelids covering what it somehow knows to be cornflower-blue gaze, there is a warm _sensation_ in the Asset's chest, one that causes it to flinch.

Because it knows that with that warm _sensation_ comes the crackle of electricity around its head, _pain pain pain_ , mingling with the sharp odor of ozone in the air. And the _screams screams screams._

The Asset startles away from the Captain's body, retreating into the tree line.

It has failed.

In an incredibly rare circumstance in all of the years spent as HYDRA's Asset, it has failed its mission.

It is to be expected to report back to its handlers, and they shall handle it and its failure as they deem accordingly.

As the Asset moves to trudge away from the shore, a glint of light draws its attention, and it turns to see the Captain's drying hair glinting gold in the midday sunlight.

Gold

- _under the bright, hazy summer sun, shaggy, covering the earnest cornflower-blue gaze of the pale, delicate boy whose familiar laughter breaks off into scratchy wheezing and shortness of breath, waving the concerned older boy besides him, saying, "I'm fine, Nik."_

 _"Fine?" repeats an incredulous, accented voice, "I suppose you were fine after the O'Connell boys beat you bloody in an alley last week when you ran your mouth at them."_

 _"They were askin' for it, you jerk," the boy tells him playfully before sobering. "They were glancin' up some dame's skirt!"_

 _"You never will change, will ya, punk?" The older boy shakes his head in disbelief. As the other boy's coughing persists, he glances at him worriedly. "C'mon, your ma will know what to do for ya, mate."_

Gold

- _sliding through his fingers of his human hand, all silky-smooth and curling, face burrowing in an expanse of soft, creamy skin as he trails tender kisses down her navel, her breathy gasps sounding above him._

 _"Nik!"_

Gold

- _slipping through his narrow fingers as they catch on rough tangles and lumps, brush snagging clumps of blonde._

 _"Ow! Nik!" hisses the little blond girl by his feet in a proud accent as he sits above on the ratty couch, two human hands moving quickly over her hair. "Be gentle!"_

 _"Gentle, Bekah?" the brother snorts. "I have to meet Steve. I am braiding your hair as quickly as I can."_

 _"Please, Nik, do it gentler?" she asks, demand phrased as a sincere request, her blue eyes large and beseeching._

There is wetness gathering at the corners of the Asset's eyes, unfamiliar dampness trailing down its cheeks.

It frowns. Brings a fingertip of its organic hand to swipe at liquid and places the finger in its open mouth, against its tongue.

The wetness taste salty, but it is simply water.

The Asset's frown becomes more pronounced.

 _This is not optimal._

The wetness is leaking faster and faster from its eyes, falling down its face in more alarming quantity. The Asset's chest begins to heave, sighs and inhuman sounds ripping from its mouth. There is a hand clamping down on its heart.

Despite all of this, the Asset is confused. It has never experienced this, this _experience_ before.

"It needs maintenance. The Asset is experiencing malfunctions. It is not in optimal condition," the Asset says tonelessly aloud with practiced patience.

XX

 **Ideal Federal Savings Bank**

 **Washington DC**

 **April 4, 2014**

Clearing the lobby of the abandoned bank in minutes, the Asset is able to navigate its way to the underground vault on instinct; it has done this several times before, not that it remembers, but it _knows_.

It finds, from the dozens of crews always present during his mission prep and recovery, only two technicians.

They are working frantically, dismantling the Chair as quickly as they seem to be able to. The older technician, mid-forties, Hispanic, with bags under his eyes and dressed in an olive uniform, is using a lever twice the width of his skinny wrist to pry the Chair from where it is bolted securely to the ground. They appear too much in a panic and rush to notice the Asset.

The Asset takes his position near the open door to the vault. The technicians are currently preoccupied with their task; when they are done, they will attend to the Asset.

The time taken for the technicians to notice the Asset is longer than the Asset would like, but it is use to such delay. It _knows_ this fact like it _knows_ certain others; the Asset's condition is secondary to all other HYDRA-related tasks, unless the mission will be compromised or affected by its state of being.

435 seconds later, the younger technician, Caucasian, dark hair, early thirties, finally spots the Asset and leaps away from the Chair in surprise, shouting loudly, " _What the fuck?_ "

The other technician whirls around, lever in hand, gaze travelling wildly around the vault. When his dark eyes eventually settle on the Asset, they dilate with terror. "It's the Asset!" he tells his companion.

"No _fucking_ duh!" the younger technician replies, mouth tensing as he sneaks a glance at the Asset. It doesn't need to hear the technicians' rapidly-beating hearts; it can sense their obvious panic and terror.

"What?" The older technician stiffens, attempting to put on a show of confidence in front of the Asset. He meets the Asset's steely gaze, unable to hide his trembling stance.

The Asset is confused; the question is not specific enough for it to answer. It is too used to direct questions and orders.

Some of its confusion must evidently show on its face, because the younger technician rolls his eyes, visibly gaining his composure before the Asset. "It can't answer that; Rumlow and the rest of STRIKE never asked it such vague questions." He faces the Asset, addressing it as one would their disobedient dog. "What do you need?"

This is not optimal. These technicians are not used to interacting with the Asset, but, either way, the Asset needs assistance.

"The Asset needs maintenance. It is not in optimal condition for missions. It is malfunctioning," the Asset tells the technicians in a simple, practiced monotone.

The older technician evidently considers his possible choices about facing the Asset before simply indulging his own curiosity. "How is the Asset malfunctioning?"

"The Asset is experiencing tightness in its chest. Earlier, it experienced a leakage in the form of dampness from the eyes," the Asset recites dutifully.

Both technicians react differently from as the Asset's usual handlers would. The younger technician gapes at the Asset; the older technician looks on at the Asset with an expression of what it identifies to be _pity_.

The older technician steps towards the Asset carefully, hands held out in a placating manner. Gently, he says, "It sounds as if you were experiencing grief or sadness. You were crying."

"Crying?" the Asset repeats, dumbfounded.

The younger technician swallows roughly, whispering to the older technician, "This is _fucked up_. It doesn't even know that it was crying." He seems unaware that the Asset's enhanced senses allow it to overhear the hushed conversation. Turning back to the Asset with sympathy in his eyes, he tells the Asset, "You're free, man. HYDRA's gone; Pierce's dead. STRIKE is displaced across the city, most arrested. Rumlow's in the hospital; Rogers will take him into custody soon."

"The Asset requires assistance," the Asset declares with more force in his tone.

The older technician turns sharply to face the Asset. "HYDRA is _gone_ , dead, _over_. You don't need to serve them anymore. Get your life back. We've gotta to take this place apart anyways before SHIELD can sweep in. The less evidence for them, the better."

The Asset frowns; this is not ideal, not ideal at all. It still requires maintenance. It tells the technicians so.

"Poor SOB," the younger technician whispers into the hushed silence of the room. "I don't think he knows who he used to be; that's fucked up. He's been wiped too many times."

The Asset is displeased by the technicians' ineffectiveness. With one swift move, it slides a gun from the holster strapped to its right thigh and shoots the younger technician in the head, replacing the gun to the holster.

Before the older technician can blink at his companion's body, the Asset locks him into a chokehold, hissing into his ear, "The Asset requires maintenance. You are unable to give that maintenance. Per to HYDRA policy, you are to be eliminated."

"HYDRA doesn't exist anymore," the older technician chokes out in reply, tugging at the unyielding weight of the Asset's metal arm on his throat. "You have no orders, no policies."

The Asset tightens its hold on the older technician's throat.

The technician is beginning to gasp, body growing pliant as the Asset drags him backwards, body at an angle.

"Wait, wait," the technician whimpers. "Please, don't. I'm married. I have a family; I have a daughter."

Something that statement gives the Asset pause. Its metal arm loosens from around the technician's throat, and the technician's body drops to the floor.

The technician scrambles to his feet and flees the vault in a blur of olive-grey.

The Asset's gaze travels around the bank vault, focusing on the remains of the damaged Chair.

It requires maintenance, but it will not find it here.

The Asset must wait.

XX

 **Washington DC**

 **April 5, 2014**

The Asset has been on its own for 34 hours; it has never been without HYDRA or supervision from its handlers for so long.

Or so it thinks.

HYDRA has not come after it, and the Asset doesn't think they will it. For the _supposed_ fist of HYDRA, the Asset does not seem to be very high on the organization's list of priorities.

It had, of course, followed all the precautions drilled into its subconscious.

They are:

In case of a compromised mission, report to the HYDRA base.

Otherwise, report to the designated HYDRA safe house.

If all else fails, procure a disguise and shelter and wait to be found.

The Asset had reported to the HYDRA base (the bank vault) and found no personnel except for the technicians.

Hence, that precaution had failed.

Next, the Asset had proceeded to the designated HYDRA safe house (a warehouse on the edge of the city) and found it empty.

That precaution had also failed.

The Asset is on its third precaution, having procured a disguise (denim trousers, a long-sleeved shirt, a hooded jacket, and gloves to hide its inorganic hand) and supplies (a backpack to contain its HYDRA uniform, a week worth of MREs, bottled water, and currency from three different countries besides the United States dollar) and shelter (an empty alley behind an abandoned building).

The Asset is to wait for 96 hours after a compromised mission if extraction or backup never comes before performing the final precaution:

Death. Induced by, in worst case scenarios, the cyanide pill hidden in a panel in the Asset's metal thumb.

The Asset is a weapon, and a weapon could fall into the wrong hands.

HYDRA will find the Asset.

XX

 **Washington DC**

 **April 6, 2014**

It has now been 50 hours.

The Asset is not sure if HYDRA is coming.

As the deadline of 96 hours grows closer, the Asset grows twitchier and twitchier.

It has not moved from its spot in the alley for over 24 hours. The week worth of MREs has now dwindled down to enough for two days' supply.

It is evident that the organizer of the supply of MREs did account for them to be eaten by someone with an enhanced biology similar to the Asset's. The organizer also did not account for the Asset's inability to keep solid food down for the first 28 hours.

As the Asset waits in the alley, it ponders what the technicians had told it.

HYDRA is gone; the Asset is _free_?

What is _freedom_?

XX

 **Washington DC**

 **April 7, 2014**

 _Freedom_ , the Asset decides, is the ability to choose by oneself.

The Asset learns the definition of _freedom_ when it runs out of MREs.

For the first time in 48 hours, it leaves its spot in the alley and wanders the streets, never straying further than several miles of its alley, in pursuit of nourishment.

It finds a cart selling something soft and creamy and cold in a cone, and, unable to find another option, it decides that that something soft and creamy and cold is what the Asset needs for nourishment.

The Asset watches two young women, hands clasped tightly together, order a serving of that something soft and creamy and cold.

When they leave, the Asset approaches the vendor in the manner it had observed the women do earlier. "One scoop," it says in a raspy voice.

"What flavor?" the vendor asks, attention focused on his cart.

The Asset is dumbfounded, gaping at the vendor in confusion. "Flavor?" it repeats in confusion.

The vendor seems to take pity on the Asset, because he says gently, "Yeah. I've got strawberry, chocolate, vanilla, Neapolitan…" He lists several more flavors.

"What's Neapolitan?" the Asset asks wearily.

"It's a combination of chocolate, vanilla, and strawberry," the vendor tells it patiently.

"Neapolitan, then," the Asset decides. "One scoop." There is a sharp, not unpleasant, spark in the back of his mind, glowing warm but not hot.

"That'll be $1.50."

The Asset forks over the exact amount in cash and wanders away before tasting its ice cream.

In that moment, the Asset decides that _freedom_ is the tartness of strawberry, the rich sweetness of chocolate, and the smoothness of vanilla.

 _Freedom_ is the taste of ice cream it chose on its tongue, the echo of pleasure, of satisfaction, in its mind.

The Asset likes _freedom_.

XX

 **Washington DC**

 **April 9, 2014**

The 96-hour mark comes and passes, the Asset using its _freedom_ to make its largest choice yet.

The Asset _chooses_ to ignore HYDRA's orders, HYDRA's precautions.

It pries the cyanide pill from its thumb and tosses it into the Potomac.

 _Freedom_ and _choices_ belong to the Asset, and HYDRA will never take that away from the Asset again. The Asset will never return to HYDRA.

That is the Asset's _choice_.

* * *

sorry for the lack of updates, but don't expect any lengthy chapters anytime soon. updates will come, but slowly. i'm sorry.

if you enjoyed the chapter or have any comments, concerns, or suggestions, you know where to find me below (or princess-of-the-worlds on tumblr).


	5. 5

warning: flashbacks, recovery, violence, temporary amnesia

* * *

 **Washington DC**

 **April 10, 2014**

Some people find it impossible to believe that a person can go to sleep and wake up as someone else, with a new identity.

But that is what happens to the Asset.

It goes to sleep as the Asset and wakes up the next morning as the Winter Soldier, and he ( _he_ , not _it_ , because the Winter Soldier is a person, not an _object_ ) is angry.

The Winter Soldier, or simply the Soldier, was once the pride and joy of the Soviet Union's Red Room.

He can speak over seventeen different languages flawlessly, including Arabic, Bulgarian, Mandarin, Greek, Hindi, Gaelic, Japanese, Romanian, and Thai. He has built up immunity to over a dozen common lethal toxins, not just because of his enhanced biology. He can run up to a mile a minute, disable a bomb under three. He can make impossible shots with a rifle from over a thousand yards away, can take down dozens of men twice his size with only a knife or his bare fists.

Under the direction of the Red Room, he had over three hundred successful missions, less than fifty of those being kill missions. Even the strongest-willed men and women fell prey to his seduction. He spent eight months seamlessly undercover as a Croatian rug merchant.

The Winter Soldier is, was, the perfect weapon, one who could think for himself but one ruthless and without basic empathy, which made him almost completely obedient.

At least, he'd had a personality.

HYDRA ruined _that_.

HYDRA destroyed everything about the Winter Soldier.

They took him and wiped him off everything that the Soldier had. They crafted him into a less effective form, like a blunt knife.

They treated him as something less than a dog, stripped him of his mind _and_ his dignity.

The Asset was not meant to be out in the world, alone, for more than a few days at a time. Its programming was unstable, uncomplete, unpolished.

No wonder it crumbled the way that it did.

The Winter Soldier may currently be extremely disoriented and barely able to function, but, if there is one fact he is sure of, it is that HYDRA is the enemy.

The Asset was right; they will not be returning to HYDRA.

Nor will be they chasing HYDRA.

They will be running.

XX

 **Washington DC**

 **April 10, 2014**

The memories flicker across his mind, fragments, stones thrown in a pond but cause no ripples.

 _the familiar feel of the cool metal of a rifle under his worn fingertips, sight focused on the target, breaths drawn in slowly, once, twice, thrice, the trigger pulled, the bullet finding its mark, the same action repeated countless times, in Russia, in Belarus, in Iran, in Estonia, in Bosnia, in Sovokia, in Egypt, in Libya_

or

 _watching a blonde pirouette and leap in the spotlight, her body, the same body he has felt below his, moving with fluid grace to the sweet music_

or

 _the same blonde as before panting sweetly in his ear_

or

 _feeling the strength, the deadly elegance in her thigh, as they wrap around his neck, squeezing, constricting, as she twists, and suddenly he is flat on his back, metal arm reaching to thread in her hair and rip her off_

or

 _countless men, women, children begging for their lives before_ -

-he jerks awake.

There is nothing but blankness now, but, before, there had been color flitting before his eyes, slippery fish that escaped from his gasp.

The Soldier is now sharply aware of his surroundings. He is still tucked in the alley, high exposed for anyone HYDRA to find him.

The Soldier knows that he has (or had, may still have) a dozen drop boxes across the country alone, circa 1975, and while all the passport and travel documents will be out of order, it is the simple matter of finding the right contacts.

The Winter Soldier can do that; he can do all that.

But there is one more thing, one last mission before that, one last task.

 _Nik._

The name his last target had called him on the helicarrier, the name the blonde Captain had addressed him with familiarity.

The Soldier must discover who _Nik_ is to him before he can proceed.

XX

 **The Smithsonian Museum**

 **Washington DC**

 **April 11, 2014**

There it is, the Soldier's own face staring back at him, imprinted on the smooth glass wall that takes up one corner of the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian.

It is indubitably his face, but it is also not.

The image before him is of a handsome man.

His face is narrow with sharp cheekbones, a strong jaw, and lips tugged into a perpetual smirk. If it were not for the black and white print of the picture, the Soldier knows that the man's hair would be dirty-blond, always in tousled curls unless teased back with pomade as it almost always consistently was, that his eyes would be dark blue, clear and crystalline.

He _knows_ his own face, but he doesn't know why he shares it with this man.

The words embossed on the transparent glass tell a story, a story about two men from Brooklyn and an undying loyalty that made one follow the other from the playground to the battlefield.

"A Fallen Comrade"

 _When Nik Mikaelson first met Steve Rogers in the playgrounds of Brooklyn, little did he know that he was forging a bond that would take him to the battlefields of Europe and beyond._

 **Niklaus Ansel "Nik" Mikaelson**

Born on March 10, 1917, Mikaelson grew up an elder brother to Rebekah Mikaelson (b. 1924). He was the first son of Mikael and Esther Mikaelson and soon first child after his elder sister Freya died of pneumonia in 1919. An excellent athlete who also excelled in the classroom, Mikaelson enlisted in the Army shortly after the attack on Pearl Harbor. After winter training at Camp McCoy, Wisconsin, Mikaelson and the rest of the 107th shipped out to the Italian front. Captured by HYDRA troops later that fall, Mikaelson endured long periods of isolation, deprivation, and torture. But his will was strong. In an ironic twist of fate, his prison camp was liberated by none other than his childhood friend, Steve Rogers, now Captain America.

Reunited, Mikaelson and Rogers led Captain America's newly formed unit, the Howling Commandos. Mikaelson's marksmanship was invaluable as Rogers and his team destroyed HYDRA bases and disrupted Nazi troop movements throughout the European Theatre.

Nik Mikaelson

1917-1945

The Soldier feels as if he should _know_ something, _remember_ something, _understand_ something, but he doesn't.

He stares at the words made permanent on the glass, stares at them until his eyes begin to burn, begin to fill with water from the effort of keeping them open so long, and waits.

When nothing happens, he turns on his heel and exits the exhibit, abandoning the words in his wake.

Whoever Nik Mikaelson was, that is not who the Soldier is now.

XX

 **Miami, Florida**

 **April 13, 2014**

After three bus rides across the East Coast, from Washington DC to Raleigh, from Raleigh to Atlanta, from Atlanta to Tallahassee, the Winter Soldier finally arrives in Miami.

It's a simple matter of tracing the same path he had gone down over forty years ago until he stumbles upon the abandoned warehouse.

The Soldier is highly fortunate that the warehouse had not be demolished in the last four decades, but when he had chosen the spot, he had based his choice on the legends of bad luck that Miami locals associated with the warehouse.

He ducks through the rotting boards, punching termite- or water-damaged wood with his metal fist to clear a large enough hole. Most of the warehouse is vast, empty space, but the Soldier allows his muscle memory to guide him to a durable metal cabinet hidden by the shadows in a far corner.

With relative ease, the Soldier is able to shove the cabinet to the right, the dreadful screech of the metal on concrete magnified to his sensitive hearing, until the dull shine of the panel tacked to the wall is visible.

The panel is made of and reinforced to the wall with a high-quality alloy of regular steel and some rare vibranium that had cost the Soldier a pretty penny in 1974 to have welded to meet his specific constraint. It would take four men and a crowbar to pry the panel from the wall.

It takes the Soldier both his hands to pry it off, and the metal clatters loudly to the ground.

The Soldier reaches into the now-revealed compartment in the wall and retrieves a tightly-shut lockbox that he manages to rip the lid off of, the weak metal crumpling under his inorganic fist.

Inside the box are passports from a dozen different countries, all with his face and all invalid, roughly two thousand dollars in bills of twenties, and weaponry. The two handguns, three knives, and one grenade (the Soldier almost smirks at the sight of the grenade in the box) are all courtesy of the Red Room, meant to have been top-of-the-line when they were placed in the lockbox, and are placed into the Soldier's dwindling collection.

When the lockbox is empty of everything but the passports, the Soldier strips himself of the few remaining weapons he had had on him from before the helicarriers and the HYDRA safehouse and tosses them to the floor. To the slowly growing pile he also adds the trackers and bugs he had either dug out from under his skin or from his arm.

He douses everything in the gasoline he brought, leaving the empty can in the warehouse for extra measure as he climbs back out through the hole he entered.

With steady hands, he strikes the match against the matchbox, the tiny flame produced dancing harmlessly against the metal of his palm.

Then he tosses the match at the rotting wood and steps back, waiting for the warehouse to begin to burn.

There is a large explosion when the flame finally makes contact with the gasoline, and the Winter Soldier can feel the dry heat blasting across his face.

The Soldier's lips curl into a genuine smirk as he watches the vestiges of HYDRA's Asset burn.

XX

 **Bucharest, Romania**

 **November 4, 2014**

" _Enjoy your night_ ," the elderly lady calls to him in Romanian as he exits the quaint bakery to the quiet twinkle of bells.

" _Thank you, ma'am_ ," he cries over his shoulder as he begins his daily walk back to his apartment building. For an evening, it is, as usual, grey and cold, and the chill nips at his exposed neck until he cinches his thick scarf tighter, burrowing his gloved hands into his coat's pockets. Despite the three or so layers he had donned early this morning, he is still shivering, and he breaks his slow march into a quick stride.

The street around him is silent with muted color, not a single soul in sight, but he closes his eyes, tips back his head, and allows his mind to wander back to the earlier morning when the world had been awash with sound and bright sun, with children playing out loudly in front of the small antique shop he worked at, the chatter of patrons from the café across the street filtering in through the flimsy glass.

The Winter Soldier's existence is an isolated and dull one, and he finds pleasure in simple things in between shifting and running from country to country. Watching civilians' mundane life, the sun warming his body on a summer day, flipping through books, all actions and moments that most took for granted, but his past in the Red Room and as the Asset make him appreciate them intensely.

Finally arriving in front of his apartment building, the Soldier shoves his way past the skinny doorway and makes his way up the three flights of stairs, footsteps thundering loudly through the empty corridor when he reaches his floor.

After unlocking the door to his apartment, he reaches and twists the doorknob, once, twice, a third time, before accepting that it will not open.

In the end, he grabs the doorknob and shoves the door inward but not with enough brute force to cause any damage.

Then he enters his apartment, slamming the door shut behind him with his human hand.

His apartment is exactly what one will receive if they are paying the Romanian equivalent of $300 per month without proof of identity.

One bedroom, a single ratty couch with a grungy pillow that came with the apartment and serves as his bed, a hotplate, and a broken-down refrigerator. There is a small bathroom off to the side, inconsistent with its running water, where he heads after unbuttoning his coat and tossing it and his scarf and gloves on the couch.

The Soldier shuts the bathroom door with his foot and drops both his hands onto the rim of the sink, the servos in his metal arm whirring quietly at the movement

After splashing water in his face and patting it dry, the Soldier surveys himself in the stained mirror, the harsh lines of his face, severe creases under his eyes shadowing the deep blue of his pupils, the light curls growing raggedly but still falling above his eyebrows, golden stubble dusting his jawline.

He does not look like the long-haired, clean-shaven Asset from the Washington DC attack; there is a vibrancy to his eyes and face that he can never remember from the paltry memories he has as the Asset and before, from the Red Room.

In his pitiful excuse for a kitchen, he retrieves the bread rolls he bought and heats them on the hotplate, eating on the couch as he reads his battered copy of Greek and Roman myths.

When he is done, he places his book back into his backpack, the most valued possession. It contains all his weapons not strapped to his body, a spare sweatshirt, three long-sleeved shirts, one pair of jeans, a few spare pairs of underwear and socks, two books, his cash, and the journal he bought two months ago that he jots down memories and dreams in.

The journal is his lifeline, his tangible link to his past. Due to the fact that most of the memories he has recalled were in the form of dreams and dissipated as soon as he roused from his sleep, the journal contains only two filled pages, but it is more than he has ever had.

The couch below his body is lumpy and hard, and the Soldier nearly rolls off trying to curl into a comfortable position, but his body, and soul, is aching and weary, and it is not so difficult to drift into the limbo of sleep.

XX

 **Bucharest, Romania**

 **November 5, 2014**

 _It is she, the blonde woman he is familiar with from her constant appearances in his dreams. She is seated on a tan couch, posture stiff and slightly unnatural. It takes him a moment to figure out that she is posing, staring at someone in front of her, arched eyebrows raised expectantly._

 _She is posing for him, he who perches on a stool, sketchbook and graphite and pencil in his lap, hand hovering above the smooth paper, pencil tilted to capture the beauty of her frowning yet still gorgeous face._

" _Are you done, Nick?" she asks impatiently, cerulean eyes darting around the room._

" _Almost, sweetheart," he replies distractedly, voice unusually rich and cultured. He makes a few more strokes on his paper with the pencil. He appears to be shading something in. "One second."_

" _It was supposed to be a quick sketch," the blonde complains, but her lips are beginning to twitch with mirth._

" _One more second," he murmurs, a look of fierce concentration on his face, tongue tucked between his cheek, eyebrows creased. He traces a line on the paper. "Done," he announces triumphantly._

" _Can I see?"_

 _Nick slides the sketchbook from his knee and lifts it, offering it to the blonde. She takes it in hand, perusing the page eagerly._

 _There is an odd beat of silence._

 _After a minute, she speaks up, voice tight with an indistinguishable emotion. "Nick?" she says simply._

" _Yes, Car—ne?"_

 _When speaking the blonde's name, there is an odd spacey quality in his voice, censoring her name from the_ _dream_ _memory_ _?_ _._

" _You were supposed to be sketching me, your beloved wife," the blonde tells Nick._

" _Yes?"_

" _You sketched the couch."_

 _Nick hums indifferently. "It is a nice couch."_

" _You bastard," she says flatly._

" _Now, sweetheart, it is not nice to call each other names-oomph."_

 _Whatever Nick was about to say is left unsaid as he is tackled by his wife._

 _They land on the floor, the blonde straddling her husband. She grins suggestively at him, biting her lip, before swooping down to plant a kiss on his lips._

" _Sorry." Nick takes advantage of her distraction to roll over, pinning the blonde below him. "This is better."_

 _He leans down to rest his forehead against his wife's, gazing into her gorgeous eyes, as they breath together, slowly, the rest of the world fading away until they remain in their small bubble._

" _Car—ne?"_

" _Yeah, Nick?"_

" _I love-"_

There is a quiet thud, as if someone has stepped too loudly then stumbled to mask the sound.

The Soldier is up and awake instantly, hand flying to the gun strapped to his left abdomen. He grabs it and the gun tucked into the waistband of his trousers, fingering the knife in his boot to ensure it remains.

He dives off the couch and rolls behind the counter in his kitchen just as the door bursts open and the first bullets begin to fly.

He dodges the missiles, darting up quickly after the bullets clatter to the ground to fire his gun three times, straight into the heads of three different HYDRA agents, before flinging the knife into the gut of a fourth. He takes a half-breath before readying to fire again.

"Nope," a voice he vaguely recognizes announces. "There will be none of that." The owner of the voice sounds detached but irritated.

There is something roiling in the Soldier's gut that he believes could be fear.

In a barely-calculated move, he rushes from behind the counter to attack HYDRA.

" _Sputnik_."

The command trigger word, properly accented in Russian, activated a failsafe in his mind, and he freezes mid-leap, tumbling harmlessly to the ground, as his brain and body both shut down.

"Huh?" the voice says, sounding surprised and disbelieving. "It actually worked."

 _Yes, it did_ , the Asset and Soldier both want to scream.

Pain blossoms across his body, and he slips heavily into unwanted unconsciousness.

* * *

updates will come slowly. but soon.

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	6. 6

warning: referenced violence, swearing

* * *

 **Brooklyn**

 **December 16, 2014**

Steve Rogers rolls out of his bed at 6:00 am and runs for about half an hour, sneakered feet slapping loudly against the pavement as he blurs past houses, stores, and other groggy joggers. When he returns to his apartment, he is not even sweating, and his breathing has barely been impacted.

He would have liked to have run more, but he is on a tight schedule today; he is travelling down to New York University to sit in on an art history lecture that Pepper's friend teaches which Pepper had suggested to Steve in the idea that the lecture might interest him.

In fifteen minutes, Steve has showered and dressed in a normal cotton t-shirt and jeans and is pacing barefoot through his kitchen, debating whether he should attempt to cook or just grab breakfast from a nearby diner that serves up a plate of food just how Sarah Rogers would have approved.

His cell phone vibrates softly on the granite countertop, and Steve reaches for it, answering the call. "Rogers," he says in greeting.

"Hey, man. How's it going?"

It's Sam who's currently back in Washington DC.

After SHIELD fell, for roughly six months, Sam and Steve traveled Europe and Asia, sometimes joined by Stark, destroying HYDRA bases and following Fury's, and sometimes Caroline's, information. They trekked all over the world, tracking trails of someone who could have been Nik.

But the lack of fruitful evidence or appearances began to dishearten Steve, and he fell into a state of depression similar to how he had been when he first came out of the ice. Thankfully, Sam, a good soldier and good friend, realized how badly Steve was taking their failures and called a halt to their travels.

Two months ago, they had returned home to civilian life, Sam, despite living in another city, recruiting Pepper and Tony to ensure that Steve remained properly distracted.

All that time, in the last half a year, Steve had been telling himself that if Nik wanted to be found, then he would be found.

Now, however, it seems that he is beginning to lose hope.

"Fine," Steve replies dismissively to Sam. "I've got some plans for later today."

"Oh." Sam sounds a bit regretful. "I'm sorry about that, man, but you're gonna have to raincheck on those plans of yours. Fury found another base in Spain."

"Where?" Steve demands. His entire life has been about controlling his temper, keeping his emotions in check, part of the reason he always had ended up in so many fights when he was younger; without Nik to look after him and keep him in check, he would have run off and gotten himself killed a long time ago. Dr. Erskine's serum had helped a little in lessening his temperament, his emotions had always seemed too big to be contained in his frail body, but Steve still needs to channel it out, take his temper out on a target.

And now, when Steve is feeling at almost the lowest he has ever been in this century, HYDRA seems the perfect target.

"Near Madrid," Sam says.

"But we crossed that base when we found it near empty," Steve states confusedly.

"Yeah, well." Sam chuckles humorlessly. "Seems that when we cut off one head, another grew in its place. The bastards popped right back up on Fury's radar."

"Okay, so we fly in to Madrid. We can use the Quinjet; I'll ask Tony-"

"Nah," Sam cuts him off, "Fury's got a plan. He wants us to fly commercial to Madrid. Barton will meet us there. We're doing this stealth. No shield, no wings, definitely no stars and stripes. This base is not just active; something's going on. They have been using a lot more power than most HYDRA bases, causing periodic blackouts in nearby neighborhoods. Fury wants us to investigate."

"Alright. I'll catch the earliest flight possible. I'll see you in Madrid." When Sam has replied, Steve ends the call, jabbing at the touchscreen of his phone. He places it back on the counter; despite wanting to slam it down, he has already crushed far too many phones that way.

Steve became Captain America to destroy HYDRA, but it seems that he never did a good enough job during the war.

Now, he's just cleaning up his _own_ mistakes, accumulated over the seventy years he was sleeping.

XX

 **Outside Madrid's city limits**

 **December 20, 2014**

Steve nearly hadn't recognized Barton with the shaggy black hair and slight beard. He had also been blindsided when Barton had opened his mouth and had begun to speak with a thick Spanish accent.

But Barton had pulled through and provided Sam and Steve with stealth suits and weapons.

The base that Steve is scouting is disguised as an abandoned building that once was a hospital. It must have been top-of-the-line when it was new, but, now, according to Barton's murmured observations made over the comms, it is in squalor.

As two highly-trained former soldiers, Sam and Clint had convinced Steve to let them take point on this raid. Steve, although also a highly-trained soldier, is just here to serve as backup. They do not want to give away all their advantages to whatever HYDRA forces may be inside that base.

Steve kneels on the ground, not entirely hidden by the bushes, both eyes acutely open as he also listens to his comm.

The standard background noise of grunts, thuds, and rare expletives that accompany most Avengers missions puts him at ease, until he is alarmed by a sudden shout of pain.

"Fuck!" Clint hisses, although a thud and a gunshot from his side of the comm indicates that he is still under attack.

"Barton?"

"Hold on," Clint grunts in reply, Steve recognizing the swift _whoosh_ of air on the other side to be Clint using his bow as a club. "One more minute."

After a few minutes of battle, he finally speaks again. "I'm fine. Some bastard got me good with a knife, it's just a flesh wound."

"Good to hear, Barton."

"There are a lot more baddies here than there were at any of the other bases we checked out, Steve," Sam admits over the constant explosions of gunshots.

"It's almost like they're guarding something," Clint muses thoughtfully. "Oh, shit! I hear some more coming my way. Going dark, Rogers."

"Check back in soon," Steve orders before he hears the telltale click on Clint's side when the archer silences his comms link. "You too, Sam."

"Got it, Rogers."

There's another click in his ear.

Though it's truly been at least half an hour, it seems like it's only minutes before Sam is bursting back in his ear, the comms link crackling loudly with static.

"Steve, there's something you need to see."

"On my way," Steve barks in reply, lunging from his spot in the brush and speeding towards the base.

He makes his way past dozens of unconscious men or women, all HYDRA personnel and all with feet and hands bound. Surprisingly enough, as Steve tears his way to the uppermost floor of the base, the prisoners transform from agents and henchmen to more of technicians and researchers.

Finally, Steve barges into a lab located in a far wing of the hospital, isolated from the rest, and finds Sam and Clint.

His fellow Avengers are standing loosely around the doorway, gazing uncertainly into the lab.

"What's going on?" Steve demands impatiently. "What did you find?"

But, there is no need for either of them to reply, because Steve's gaze travels to the chair set in the middle of the room by its own.

"Oh my God."

The words fall unwittingly from his lips, because, strapped to the chair, groggy and with a string of drool running down from his chin, is Nik.

 **End of Part One**

* * *

This is the end of the first part. I have the next part outlined and will start writing it soon. Expect the first chapter of the second part in a month, or maybe earlier.

Drop me a comment. Tell me what you loved (or hated) about the chapter and what you want to see in the future.

Comments make this author write less angsty things.


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